


Strong Enough

by carolroi (CarolROI)



Series: Divergence [12]
Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarolROI/pseuds/carolroi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened after the movie was over...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strong Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Each of these short stories is about a point in the 2004 POTO movie where a change could send the story in a new direction. So assume everything is just like the movie, up to the point where each story starts. Each story is then a "divergence" from the original movie.

So many chances...so many missed opportunities...Christine stared at her reflection in the mirror, anger and disappointment marring her image's perfectly made-up countenance. "This is all your fault," she whispered at the face looking back at her. "You couldn't be strong for one moment, could you? You couldn't be brave for yourself or for him."

Tears welled up in her eyes and she closed them, leaning her head in her hands. In the weeks following that last night at the opera house, she had come to view her relationship with her Angel with a painful clarity. What had been so difficult to grasp then seemed so utterly simple now. She had been the only one with the power to change the events that had happened. So many moments in which she could have diverted what was to come by simply being honest with her and with him. If she had only had the courage to tell him the truth, to tell Raoul the truth, that she loved her Angel and not her childhood friend. 

She had been afraid then, but not now. Now Christine knew that his violence and his anger had come from his own fear, the fear that his music, his heart and his soul would not be enough for her, that she could not love him because of his ruin of a face. 

"Oh, Erik," she breathed, finally letting the tears fall. "I was everything you were frightened of." The look in his eyes as she had left him haunted her dreams and her waking hours. She could still hear his desperate plea for her to stay. _"Christine, I love you...."_

He was the greatest man she had ever known, and she had broken him without a word as she had walked away from him. She had never imagined leaving him would break her as well. The never-ending ache in her heart had begun the moment she had looked back at him, standing alone on the shore of his self-made prison, the ring, that stupid token that she had somehow imagined could bring him comfort, clutched tightly in his fist. 

She had awoken the morning after the fire knowing her cowardice for what it was, and she had resolved to find her Angel and to make things right between them.

Unfortunately for Christine, Raoul's need to protect her from the Phantom became paranoia. Guards patrolled the grounds of his estate and bars had been installed over the windows. A guard sat outside her room at night and a maid sat within while Christine slept. In the three weeks since the fire, she had never been alone for more than a moment or two. 

But that had changed today. For the first time since that night she felt she could breathe, as she was alone in the bride's room at the Eglise Saint-Gervais-Saint-Protais. The hairdresser had just left and she had asked not to be disturbed until it was time for her to dress for the ceremony. 

Pushing back from the vanity, Christine got to her feet, wiping at her damp cheeks. Taking off her engagement ring, she set it down on the vanity on top of the note she had written to Raoul. Calmly she removed the pins the hairdresser had inserted to hold her veil in place and set the piece of lace down on the dressing table. Slipping off the robe she wore over her corset and bloomers, she opened the carpetbag she had brought with her from the estate. Ostensibly, it was to have held her trousseau for her wedding night, but in reality she had packed only a simple, well-worn gown, a cape, and sturdy boots, along with a leather pouch holding her meager life's savings. 

Dressing quickly, Christine walked over to the single window in the room and opened it. She paused, one leg over the sill as she heard voices in the hallway, but no one knocked at the door. Stepping fully out of the window onto the ledge a few feet below, she pushed the glass closed and began her precarious trek along the ledge. When they had visited the church a week ago, Raoul had been pleased that the bride's dressing room was on an upper floor of the church, with no nearby trees or convenient trellises for anyone wishing to steal Christine away to climb.

She, however, had silently noted that if one walked the narrow ledge around to the east side of the church it was only a three-foot leap to the roof of the building next door. There was always the danger of falling, but she was to the point where death or injury was preferable to her gilded prison. 

Cautiously, she rounded the corner and spotted her objective. It would not be an easy task, as she would have to run along the ledge to gather up speed, then jump at an angle onto the roof. Saying a silent prayer and gathering up her skirts, she took five rapid steps and launched herself into the air. Her leap was graceful, but her landing was not. Her feet slid on the tiles and she tumbled to the rooftop, knocking the wind out of her lungs. She lay there, stunned, for several minutes, gazing up at the sun shining in the clear blue sky. 

When her heart slowed down enough that it no longer felt as though it was going to burst from her chest, Christine got slowly to her feet. She stood on top of a three-story building that was part of a line of shops stretching down the block, all of them attached to one another. It was a simple task to step from where she was to the next roof. In this manner, Christine made her way across Paris.

* * *

Quite some time had passed when Christine finally descended to the street and hailed a cab. From there it was only a matter of minutes before she reached the opera house. Alighting from the carriage, she paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk staring up at the remains of the only home she had known for nearly ten years. 

The once magnificent structure was a ruin, the brick soot-stained, boards nailed tightly over the broken windows and doors. She walked around the building, trying all the entrances and even the grates covering the ventilation shafts to no avail. Coming once again to the front of the theater, she sat down on the steps and rested her chin on her drawn up knees. Somehow she had just assumed she would be able to gain entrance, and that he would still be there. It was a silly notion, she realized now. She was supposed to have moved on; how idiotic of her not to imagine him doing the same. 

She wiped angrily at the tears she felt rolling down her dust-streaked face. Even if she didn't find him, she would not go crawling back to Raoul. Erik had given her the gift of her voice, and she knew because of his belief in her that she had the skills to find a position somewhere else. Her birth country of Sweden, perhaps, or maybe Italy, home of the greatest opera houses in the world. Not finding Erik this instant was a minor setback. She would just have to try harder to find him, that was all. 

And she would start with Madame Giry. Getting to her feet, she flagged her second cab of the day, and gave him the address Meg had told her the last time Christine had seen her, two days after the fire.

It was mid-afternoon when she arrived at the apartment block that held the Giry's new home. Dashing up the steps, she knocked on the door, crossing her fingers and praying that someone would be home. She heard the sound of footsteps approaching then the door was opened. 

Madame Giry was revealed as the door swung inwards, still as tall and prim as ever, her hair wrapped around her head in its customary braid. "Christine! Mon Dieu, child! What are you doing here? Isn't this your wedding day?"

"I'm not getting married, Madame," she answered confidently. "I do not love Raoul, and I would not wish an unhappy marriage on either of us." 

A strange expression crossed Madame's face then but she quickly gave Christine a smile and gestured for her to enter. "Come in, come in. It seems like it has been so long since I've seen you, yet it has been barely a month. Sit down, dear. Can I get you something to drink?" 

Christine sat down on the edge of a well-worn settee. "No, thank you. There's something I need to ask you."

The older woman had been headed out of the room, presumably toward the kitchen, but turned back at Christine's words. "What is it?"

"I need to find Erik. Do you know where he is? I tried the opera house, but it was all boarded up, and I could not find a way inside." 

Madame Giry's smile faded, and her gaze seemed to become pitying. "Oh, my dear, I am so sorry. Have you not seen the paper today?"

Christine felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach, as if all the joy had been scraped out of her at those words. "No," she answered, her voice a hoarse whisper, "no, Raoul has done a very fine job of keeping the outside world away from me."

Madame crossed the room to a small desk and returned with a folded copy of _L'Epoque_. She held it out to Christine, who took it with trembling hands. At first she didn't understand. There on the page was the announcement of her wedding to Raoul, the one that would never take place. Her gaze traveled down the columns until it reached the obituaries. 

For the second time in her life, Christine felt her world shattering as she read those three words. 

**Erik is dead.**

* * *

The newspaper dropped from nerveless fingers and Christine left the Giry's apartment without a word, stumbling down the stairs in a daze, every step echoing those vicious words in her head. Erik is dead. **Erik is dead.** She broke into a run as she reached the street, sobs choking her as tears blurred her vision.

She didn't know how long she ran or in which direction she was going, but somehow she was not surprised to find herself outside the gates to the cemetery. Leaning against the iron fence, she closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath. Thoughts of her Angel flooded her, and she forced her mind into blankness, seeing nothing but the darkness behind her eyelids, the only sound the rushing of her blood roaring in her ears. 

When she opened her eyes again, she was calm, numb, thinking of nothing but putting one foot in front of the other as she made her way to her father's tomb. Memories of the last time she had visited his grave rose up, but she pushed them ruthlessly back, turning her attention to the first signs of spring around her, the buds on the trees, the green leaves of tulips peeking through the damp earth.

It wasn't until Christine reached her father's mausoleum, climbed the stairs and tugged open the gates that she let herself truly feel her loss. Dropping to her knees, she howled her despair. Sobs rocked her body until she no longer had the strength to stay upright. She collapsed to the cold marble floor of the crypt, lost and broken.

"Father, forgive me," she whispered. "You sent me the Angel of Music and my fear drove me from him. Now he is gone forever." She pressed her clenched fists against her eyes in an effort to stem her tears.

He couldn't be dead, not her strong, capable Angel. Her stomach clenched at the thought of what he must have gone through after she left him. In a lifetime of pain and fear he had only dared to reach out once for love, and she had rejected him. He must have felt as she did when her father died, that there was nothing to make life worth living. He had destroyed his world, she had abandoned him, and not even music could comfort him any longer. She knew she would never sing again, and she imagined he would have felt the same at her loss. Death must have seemed preferable to a life of solitude and misery.

She curled into a ball, her arms wrapping around her stomach, trying to ease the sickness she felt at the knowledge that her Angel must have ended his own life. "Please, God, please, he didn't deserve to suffer for my sins...please, he belongs in Heaven..."

Christine lay there for she knew not how long, endless tears creating a small pool on the smooth floor. "Why did you choose me, Erik? Why couldn't you have loved someone less foolish, someone who could see you for the Angel you were from the very beginning, who could love you the way you deserved to be loved? I'm sorry, Angel, I'm so sorry." 

Finally, Christine fell into an exhausted sleep, from which she hoped never to awake.

* * *

When Christine opened her eyes again, the inside of the mausoleum was dark, though through the gate she could see the pink tinted sky, the setting sun casting long shadows across the headstones. She lay there on the stone floor of the tomb, her muscles aching from the uncomfortable position and too much crying, but strangely enough she wasn't cold, though she should be. 

She shifted her arm and realized it was covered by a blanket--no, a cape. Joy and fear collided inside her and she closed her eyes, wanting just for a moment to believe this was real, that her Angel was alive, was here with her. She stroked her fingers over the soft cloth, bringing a handful of it to her nose and inhaling deeply. The mixed aromas of smoke, wool and the spicy musk she knew was Erik's own scent filled her senses. 

_Please, God,_ she prayed, _please_ …Christine opened her eyes again and sat up slowly. "Angel?" she whispered. 

The scrape of a leather sole against stone came from the darkest corner of the mausoleum. Getting to her feet, still clutching the cape to her chest, she peered into the blackness. "Show yourself, Erik, please." 

There was a softly exhaled sigh, and a tall form oozed from the shadows to loom over her.

* * *

Erik crouched in the corner of the empty choir loft, peering down at the lavishly decorated church slowly filling with ostentatiously dressed wedding guests. The groom stood at the head of the aisle, pacing back and forth. He snorted softly. What did that fool have to be nervous about? Christine was marrying the boy, after all. 

A woman dressed in a bright purple gown came up the aisle, a worried expression on her face. By her fair hair, he guessed she was one of the De Chagny sisters. She approached Comte Phillipe, the best man, and whispered in his ear. His complexion turned a brilliant crimson. Erik couldn't hear his words at this distance, but he could clearly read his unflattering comments about Christine on his lips. Erik's hands clenched into fists. 

The Comte approached Raoul, and once again there was a whispered exchange. The color drained from the Vicomte's countenance then he strode swiftly up the aisle and out of the sanctuary. 

Something was obviously wrong, but what? Erik had come here only for one last glimpse of his angel before he left France forever. "Christine…" he breathed then opening the narrow window behind him, he slipped out onto the church's roof. 

He leapt from the sanctuary's roof to that of the wing holding the bride's room. Quietly he laid down at the roof's edge and peered over. Through the slightly open window of the bride's room, he saw Raoul enter, glance frantically around at the empty space, then cross to the window. Erik barely moved back in time to keep from being discovered. 

"He's taken her, I know it!" the Vicomte exclaimed.

Another voice, most likely the Comte, said, "You told me yourself that his obituary was in today's paper. Besides, there is no way up to this window from the outside, and we had guards on the stairs and outside the door." 

"I know! But he's like a ghost. I halfway believe he can move through walls like those ballet rats said. If he has her, he would take her back to the opera house, I'm sure of it." The voice grew softer as Raoul moved away from the window.

Erik risked looking into the glass again. Both men had their backs to him, huddled around the dressing table. Phillipe handed Raoul a sheet of paper. Raoul read it then crumpled the note in a tight fist before tossing it aside. He strode out of the room, Phillipe behind him. 

Erik waited until he saw the two men get into a carriage at the front of the church and drive off then he easily slipped over the edge of the roof and onto the ledge below the open window. He was about to climb inside when he noticed what the Vicomte had not--footprints in the soot on the ledge. They were the size of a woman's foot, and traveled along the ledge and around the corner of the building. 

A smile crossed his face. Christine had out-witted her Vicomte. Priceless! He started to follow the footprints, but remembered the paper the boy had thrown to the floor. Going through the window, Erik retrieved it. Unfolding it, he read the words written in a neat hand. _"I'm sorry, Raoul, but I cannot marry you."_ It was signed _"Christine"_.

So she had truly left that spoiled boy. Hope surged painfully in Erik's chest for a brief moment before reality's claws rent it in two. Just because she left Raoul didn't mean she loved him. 

Erik looked around, taking in the pale gold bridal dress hanging on the door of the wardrobe. It was a hideous monstrosity, with a neckline that would have come to Christine's chin and a huge bell skirt dripping with lace and beading. He chuckled under his breath. "Wise decision, Christine. You would have looked like a great golden egg walking down the aisle in that. It's reason enough to run away." A flicker of rage ignited in his chest as he realized they had not allowed Christine to wear white, that the De Chagnys considered her tainted, most likely by her relationship, such as it was, with him. 

He crossed to the dressing table and ran his fingers over the veil he could see had been hastily unpinned and dropped. In his mind's eye he saw her again, a different veil resting on her curls before she had dropped it to the ground and pulled the cover from the mirror, forcing him to face his own hideousness. He made himself look up from the tabletop to the image in the vanity's mirror. 

He wore neither mask nor wig now; there was no point to it any more. Several days' worth of stubble covered his chin, his skin was smeared with grime and his clothes were sweat-stained and wrinkled from having been slept in. He was the elegant Angel of Music no longer, just a dirty, ugly man who had no business being in a house of worship, let alone hoping for a second chance with a woman he would never deserve. And yet she had left the boy…His attention turned from the depressing reflection to the items on the dressing table.

A ring lay underneath a scattering of hairpins. Erik picked it up, turning it over under his gaze. The boy had replaced his first bauble with one even more gaudy. He started to return it to the table, but stuck it in his pocket instead, along with Christine's note. If the Vicomte chose to leave something of such value lying around, then he deserved to lose it.

Returning to the window, Erik stepped once more onto the ledge and followed the footprints around the corner of the church. There the gap between the marks widened; clearly she had taken several running strides before…what? The prints stopped halfway down the length of the building. Erik glanced down at the narrow alley below. It was empty. 

His gaze traveled up the side of the building next to the church, a slow smile crossing his lips. "Brava, Christine," he said quietly, "brava." Two quick steps and a leap, and Erik was on top of the other building. A disturbance in the dirt covering the roof showed Christine's landing point. 

Turning slowly in a circle, Erik looked out at Paris in all directions. He knew how Christine had escaped. The question now was where had she gone?

* * *

He had found her at the cemetery, huddled in a ball on the floor in front of her father's crypt, asleep. Unable to bring himself to wake her, Erik covered her with his cape and stood watch over her from the shadows. It wasn't long before Christine stirred and noticed that things had changed while she slept. 

She crushed the fabric of his cape in her hands, bringing it to her nose and inhaling deeply, her expression changing to one of peaceful bliss. The thought that she knew his scent, that it was pleasurable to her, made his knees weak. When she called "Angel?", he was nearly undone. 

Her gaze searched the corners of the mausoleum for him, and he instinctively drew back. He had thought of nothing but this moment for weeks, but in his mind it had been him watching her marry the Vicomte from afar, allowing him one last glimpse of her heavenly beauty before she was gone from his life forever. 

Christine rose slowly to her feet, clutching his cloak in her arms. "Show yourself, Erik, please." 

He took another step back and found himself trapped in a corner. His mouth was dry, yet he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and his heart thudded like a tympani in his chest. He recalled the strange joy he had felt standing in the bride's room at the church, knowing that she had willingly left the boy. Forbidden images had swirled through his mind, of Christine searching for him, of her eager touch, her happy kisses when she found him. Confronted with her now, all he felt was gut wrenching terror. She had broken his heart when she left him the first time. If she didn't want him now, he would be destroyed. He was trapped, no escape save through the mausoleum's gates. 

Erik moved into the light, toward the opening at the entrance to the tomb. 

"Angel!" Christine cried out, dashing toward him. He reacted on instinct, taking a step back from her, his hand clenching round one of the iron bars of the gate. His flinch stopped her in her tracks and the hurt look that crossed her face shattered the bits of his heart into tiny slivers. 

Tears glistened in her eyes as she pressed a hand to her mouth. "You're alive," she finally whispered moving parallel to him until she stood next to the gate as well. He kept his eyes turned to the sight of the sun setting over the cemetery, though he felt her gaze roaming over him, taking in his unmasked visage, his disheveled and unkempt appearance. 

"Why did you lie? Why did you put that notice in the paper? Was it to hurt me as I know I have injured you?" Her voice was quiet and thick with tears, and he was suddenly ashamed of what he had done, though he had thought it was the right thing at the time. 

Swallowing the bile he could taste at the back of his throat, Erik said, "It was my wedding gift to you. With my death you would be free. No looking over your shoulder at every shadow, no nightmares of the monster coming for you in the middle of the night. I wanted you to be happy, for you to forget me."

He heard her sharp intake of breath, but still he did not look at her, feeling what was left of his heart grinding into sand at her silence. 

"Oh, Angel," she finally breathed, "oh, my poor, poor Erik. How could I ever forget the man who holds my heart and soul in his hands?" She reached out her hand toward him, but did not touch him. She only wrapped her fingers around the same cold iron bar he clutched, her hand slightly above his own. She took a hesitant step forward to stand at his side, close enough he could smell her floral perfume, could feel the warmth of her breath against his distorted cheek. He closed his eyes, knowing that if he looked upon her he would be lost.

"Return to your precious Vicomte, Christine," he finally hissed between clenched teeth. "Go live the life you were meant to live." 

Her hand slipped down the bar to cover his, her touch warm and gentle. He leaned his forehead against the gate, trying to hold back his tears. "Go! Go now and leave me!"

"No," she said quietly and firmly. "This is the life I was meant for. Do you believe in God, Erik?" 

Exhaling a ragged breath, he answered, "You know I don't."

She pressed her cheek against his shoulder. "I do. He has a plan for each of us, though we may never see our lives as such. Everything that has happened to us has been a test to make sure I was strong enough to love you." 

He snorted softly, but didn't keep her from speaking.

"He sent you to me when I needed an angel. I truly believe that. How else do you explain your interest in me at that age? Most young men would have found the idea of entertaining a grief-stricken child utterly boring." It was true he had never before or since had any interest in the ballet rats.

"Please, Erik, if you do not believe me, trust in Him. How else can you explain all that's happened? I am here because it is where I am meant to be. I am meant to be the one to love you. I know that now. All of this, the violence, the fire, Raoul, they were all a test of my strength, of my love for you. He knows the life we create together will not be an easy one, so He tempted me with one that was. With Raoul, I would never want for any physical need, but I would never love or be loved as I would with you. Please, Angel, let me love you as you deserve to be loved. Let me give you all that you've ever wanted. Let me hold you in my arms and never let you go."

Opening his eyes, he kept his gaze fixed on the deepening purple of the now twilight sky, watching as lights were lit in the homes of Paris, manmade stars twinkling as though heaven now dwelled on the ground. It was an illusion, just as her words of love were an illusion. She was blind, blind as he had once been, dreaming of a world that could never be. 

He let out a long, sad sigh. "I've nothing left to give you, Christine. My heart, withered and blackened thing that it was, has crumbled to dust." 

She didn't say anything, simply reached up her hand and touched his face, her fingers stroking with care each reddened bump and crevice, caressing those places that had never known any touch save his own. Her lips followed in the path of her fingers, each kiss as soft as a rose petal. Tears slid down his cheeks, hot and stinging, and she kissed those, too. Her arms slid around him in a firm embrace, as she kissed the shell of his ear, whispering the words he had gone his whole life without hearing. "I love you, Erik."

* * *

Christine pressed her lips gently to the skin just below his ear then tilted her head so she could see his face. Erik's eyes were closed tightly, almost in pain. He swayed on his feet and she felt him trembling in her arms. Afraid he was going to fall, she quickly dropped the cape she still held on the ground. "Come," she said, "let's sit before we collapse."

Erik slid down the wall behind him to rest on the floor, his legs splayed. Christine knelt between his knees, cradling his face in her hands. He finally looked at her then, his gaze a mixture of emotions, hope and love fought with fear for dominance. He held her eyes for a moment only and looked away. It had been enough, though, for Christine to see what he had been through these past weeks.

He had been dying; the same as she had before she had made up her mind to return to him. That goal had given her something to work for, a reason to be. She had begun to eat again, to take care of herself, to force herself to face the daily unpleasantness that was the de Chagnys knowing that there would be an end to the hell she had created. For Erik there had been only the prospect of never-ending darkness and the knowledge that if the one who knew him better than any other could not love him then no one could.

Lifting his chin, Christine kissed his mouth softly. His lips were almost too warm, and rough against hers, but a thrill went through her as he responded to her touch, his hands fisting in her hair as he returned the kiss. Breathless, they broke apart, Erik staring at her as if noticing her for the first time.

"You love me?" he finally asked, his voice halting and soft.

She nodded, feeling her eyes fill with tears. "I love you. I should never have left you. I should never have put you through the pain I did."

He swallowed and tried to turn his face away from her, but she still held him captive in her hands. "I don't deserve your love," he finally growled. "Though you have left the boy, it still doesn't change what I am--a monster not fit to look upon you, let alone touch you."

Christine let out a growl of her own and was pleased when his surprised gaze returned to her. "Stop it. I will not have anyone speak of my future husband that way."

His eyes grew wide and his mouth opened and shut several times before he stammered, "Your husband?"

She smiled at him, letting go of his face to run her hands through his hair then clasp them behind his neck. "My husband. I think far too highly of you to dishonor you by making you my lover." He made an inarticulate sound then wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close as he hid his face in the curve of her shoulder.

"Oh, Christine…" he moaned, and he shuddered in her arms, sobbing quietly against her neck. She held him tightly, one hand on his head, the other around his shoulders. Leaning her cheek against his hair, she closed her eyes. Finally, after so many years of feeling alone in a crowd, of an aching emptiness she had always thought had been her father's loss, Christine knew what she had been missing for so long. It was the love of her Angel, her Erik. She embraced his love as she embraced him, and felt complete...except she couldn't feel her feet.

"Erik, I need to move," she said quietly. He looked up at her, his eyes tired but joyful. "My legs are asleep." He blinked, nodded, and let go of her enough that she could change positions. She sat down on the floor between his knees, wiggling her toes as she leaned against his chest. Hesitantly, Erik encircled her with his arms, breathing a little sigh as she rested her head on his shoulder.

They stayed that way until the last of the sun's rays faded beyond the horizon and the pale, cool light of the full moon limned the wings of the stone angels as they kept watch over the dead.

"Where do we go from here?" Christine finally asked, lifting her head from his shoulder. "Back to the opera house?"

He shook his head sadly. "I haven't lived there in weeks, not since--that night."

She reached up and touched his cheek. Closing his eyes, Erik pressed his face into her palm. His heavy beard stubble itched against her hand, and she rubbed at a bit of dirt on his chin with her thumb. What had he been through in the weeks that they had been apart? "Where have you been living then?"

Blinking, he gazed at her, his eyes bleary. "The catacombs." At her horrified expression, he hastily said, "It's not so bad, almost like my home on the lake. Not quite as comfortable, but safer than the streets."

Christine didn't know whether to be horrified that he had been living among the bones of the dead, or angry that he had taken so little care of himself. She settled for hugging him tightly. "How in the world did you ever find me here? Even I didn't know I was going to end up here when I found out you were dead."

Erik tangled his fingers in her hair. "I went to the church. I wanted to see you one last time before I left. I wasn't going to interrupt the ceremony, just watch from the choir loft." He looked away from her, a soft sigh escaping his lips. "I wanted to know I did the right thing in letting you go." His gaze found hers again, his expression confused. "But you're here now, and not with--was I wrong? Should I have kept you with me that night?"

Christine pondered his question. It was the same one she had been asking herself for weeks. "I think we both needed for you to free me," she answered softly. "In that moment, you discovered what kind of man you truly are, as did I. You are not the black-hearted monster the world wants to paint you, but a good man, an honorable man, who would give up what he wanted most in the world out of love." Tears stung her eyes and she tried to blink them back but failed. "I knew in that moment that you truly were my angel. I should never have left you. I don't know how I could have."

Erik straightened from his slumped position against the wall, embracing her. "It doesn't matter now." He wiped away her tears with the side of his finger. "We are together, and I have no intention of ever letting you go." He tilted her face up, bending down to touch his lips to hers gently. He pulled back a bit to look at her, and she could see fire in his eyes. He kissed her again, his mouth moving from hers to the side of her throat as she leaned her head back.

Christine closed her eyes, Erik's touch sending a forbidden thrill through her. She shivered as his hand cupped her breast. She felt the same heat she had the night of Don Juan Triumphant when he had sung to her of seduction, had run his hands over her nearly naked body, each touch leaving an inferno in its wake. Oh, how she wanted the flames of love to consume them, but not on the cold marble floor of her father's mausoleum.

"Erik," she murmured, and he lifted his head from nibbling at her collarbone to press his mouth to hers. His tongue swept across the seam of her lips and she opened to him, tasting him for the first time. The raw intimacy of their tongues sliding together sent a flood of pleasure through her. An aching need rose within her, centered at the join of her thighs. She gasped into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back enough so she could breathe. "Erik," she tried again and this time his gaze focused on her. "I want this, I do, but not here."

She stroked his face with both hands. "I want our first time to last for hours; I want to touch and kiss every part of you, to love you as you deserve to be loved, not to just quickly couple in this most inappropriate of settings."

He swallowed, nodding in agreement.

Kissing his cheek, Christine rose to her feet and he followed her, picking up his cape and fastening it over his shoulders. When he looked at her again, his gaze was intense. Grasping her by the waist, he crushed her body to his and she clutched at his shoulders to keep her balance. His hips moved against hers. She couldn't stop the moan that escaped her lips as the hard evidence of his desire for her pressed against her belly. He kissed her roughly, almost painfully, then stepped back from her, his breathing ragged, his eyes glowing eerily in the silvery moonlight.

"Do you still want me, Christine?" he rasped, "Now that you have felt my wicked desire for you? Would you truly join with this greedy creature who would ravage you and claim you as his own?"

It pained her to see the shadow of doubt in his eyes, to know that he still feared she would change her mind and abandon him once again. Christine wrapped one arm around Erik's neck, standing on tiptoe to brush her lips over his. Her other hand slid down his stomach and came to rest on what he had deemed his "wicked desire". His mouth opened in a silent cry, but he controlled himself, keeping his hands at his sides as she touched him. "I love all of you, Erik. You are my love, my Angel, and no one else's," she whispered forcefully.

He kissed her tenderly then, his desperate need draining away at the reassurance of her love. "Will you marry me, Christine, now, tonight?"

She nodded eagerly. "Yes. There is a chapel on the other side of the cemetery. It's early evening yet. Perhaps the priest is still there."

His face lit up with delight at her words and for the first time Christine saw him truly happy. The emotion transformed him, the sorrow and pain lifting from his face, his body. He stood taller, his eyes sparkling with joy and he picked her up, raising her so high off the ground that she let out a squeal and clasped her arms around his neck. He twirled them around then finally set her back on her feet before opening the mausoleum's gates.

Taking her hand, Erik led her out into the night, walking nearly backwards through the gravestones unable to take his eyes off of her. She laughed in delight at his eagerness and hooked her arm through his, tugging him close to her side. Something he had said earlier came to her and she asked him a question. "You said you were at the church to see me before you left. Where were you going?"

Her words seemed to sober him slightly, and Erik slowed his rapid pace to look down at her. "Anywhere but here. I was going to just pick a direction and keep going until I could go no further."

Christine hugged his arm. "Now you will not have to travel alone."

The grin reappeared on his face. "I suppose not. Where would you like to go?"

Before she could answer, a shout echoed to them through the tombstones. "Christine!" A second voice joined the first. "Christine, where are you?"

Christine and Erik gazed at each other in horror. "Raoul," she whispered, "he's found us…."

Erik's grip tightened on her hand. "Run!"

* * *

As soon as the word was out of his mouth, Erik regretted it. Their swift footfalls crunched loudly on the graveled path as they raced through the cemetery. He could only hope the sound echoing amongst the tombstones would confuse the Vicomte as to their exact location. 

The chapel loomed before them in the darkness, faint light glowing through the windows and the cracks around the door. Erik tugged the door open slightly, letting Christine slip inside. He followed, closing the door behind them. To his dismay, there was no lock, but seizing a banner that stood upon a pole to the side of the double doors, he thrust the pole through the handles, effectively barring entrance. 

He turned his attention back to Christine, who was striding quickly up the center aisle of the church toward a squat, white-haired man in a cassock. "Sanctuary!" she cried out. "Please, Father, you must grant us sanctuary!" 

Erik moved to join her, his gaze taking in the white lilies decorating the room, and the plain coffin resting across two trestles in front of the altar. They had interrupted preparations for a funeral, how appropriate. 

The old priest's eyes widened as he caught sight of Erik's face, but he did not turn tail and run, most likely because Christine was hanging onto his arm in a death grip. "Father, you must hide us, please!" She looked back at Erik, stretching her hand out to him. He took it, moving hesitantly to stand beside her, unsure of what, if anything he should say. 

It appeared as though Christine had things well in hand. "You must help us. They will kill him if they find us!" 

The priest turned his attention back to Christine. "Are you running from the police, my dear?" he asked her.

She shook her head. "My ex-fiancé. He cannot accept that Erik is whom I truly love. He will kill him, Father, I know it!" She let go of the priest to wrap both arms around Erik's waist. "Please, aid us."

The old man peered up at Erik through his spectacles, his lips pursed. He opened his mouth to speak just as a loud noise came from the rear of the chapel. Shouts could be heard over the pounding of fists against the blocked doors. 

"Please, Father," Erik said, his voice raw and hoarse with tension. 

The priest nodded. "Yes, yes, I will aid you, children. Quickly, this way. There is somewhere you can hide." 

Christine's arms tightened around Erik, and he saw the fear in her eyes as she looked up at him. "It will be all right," he whispered to her. "We will be all right. Trust in Him, that was what you said." 

Nodding, she turned to follow the priest, but Erik couldn't help but feel a knot of dread forming in the pit of his stomach.

His apprehension increased when the priest showed them the hiding place. 

Christine trembled beside him. "Isn't there anywhere else?" she asked in a quavering whisper. 

Erik could see the wisdom of it, even if he didn't like it. "I think this is the only place the Vicomte would not dare to look." He climbed into the small space first, and extended his hand to Christine. She lay down nearly on top of him, pressing her face into the curve of his neck. "It will be all right, my love," he reassured her as the priest sealed their refuge, cloaking them in darkness. 

Even after living in the catacombs, the smell of death and moldering flesh so close nearly made him ill. Taking a cue from Christine, he buried his face in her hair, letting her scent fill his lungs. She shivered, and he rubbed her back in what he hoped was a soothing gesture. Her arm slipped around his waist and she sighed as her body relaxed slightly. Erik pressed his lips to her forehead then settled in to wait.

* * *

When he unbarred the chapel doors, the old priest was nearly bowled over by a young man. His face was flushed and he wore a groom's morning suit. Quite incongruously, he clutched a pistol in his hand. The man dashed up the center aisle of the church looking anxiously around. "Christine! Christine, where are you?"

A second man entered the church. He was older than the first man, but his hair color and facial features marked him as clearly related to the other one. The new arrival strode over to Father Reinard, his demeanor calm in comparison to the younger man, who was now searching the confessional booth. 

"What is the meaning of this?" the priest demanded.

The older man pulled out a watch and checked the time. "You must excuse my brother, Father. He thought he saw his fiancée run in here." 

Since the man didn't directly ask him if he had seen the young woman, the priest did not offer any information, he simply observed the young man as he dashed about the chapel. When he went to open the coffin at the front of the church, however, he had to draw the line.

"Have you gone mad, sir? Stop this blasphemy! I will not have you disturbing the dead!"

* * *

Christine tucked her face closer against Erik's neck, the scratch of his beard stubble giving a much needed sense of reality to their cramped, pitch black surroundings. No sound reached them from the chapel, and she prayed that Raoul had given up the hunt for them and left. 

Erik's breathing was loud in her ear, his heart thudding steadily under the palm of her hand. A wry smile tugged at her lips as she recalled just how often she had wished to be this close to her angel over the past weeks without him. Even now, in circumstances far less than ideal, she had no regrets. Touching her lips to the hollow of his throat, she felt him tremble. 

"Christine..." he whispered, "oh, Christine, what you do to me..." He nuzzled her hair, his fingers finding and stroking the curve of her cheek. 

"Erik," she began but felt him go deathly still, and she swallowed the rest of her words.

Faint voices reached her ears and a shudder went through her. What seemed an eternity later, footsteps sounded outside their hiding place as Erik's arms tightened around her. A hideous creaking noise started and Christine prayed fervently as light suddenly illuminated their sanctuary.

* * *

The wild-eyed man stuffed the pistol in his pocket and fumbled with the catches on the coffin lid. "Dead, ha! A coffin is a fitting hiding place for that creature's corpse!" 

Father Reinard grabbed at the man's arm, but was flung back, stumbling to his knees on the stone floor. 

"Raoul!" The older brother barked. "Stop this nonsense! She is long gone, and once you are in your right mind, you will realize her leaving you was a gift." 

"No, no, " the young man protested weakly, still clutching the coffin's lid. The priest could see tears sparkling in his eyes as he pleaded with his brother. "She's here, she has to be. He took her and I'll kill him. I'll kill that ugly ghost! I'll--" His voice cut off as he flung open the coffin.

* * *

Christine grasped the hand that was extended to her and climbed out of the hiding place. Once she was settled firmly on the ground, the priest turned to offer help to Erik, but he already stood next to the chapel's ossuary vault that had been their haven. "Raoul, is he gone?" Christine asked anxiously, blinking in the light of the lantern the priest held. 

"He and his brother have gone, yes." He shook his head. "He is not well, mademoiselle. He opened the coffin and found the body of a young woman who was killed yesterday in a carriage accident. She had brown hair much like yours, and it unnerved him completely. He fairly swooned, and I had to help his brother carry him to their carriage. His brother said something about taking him away for a long rest, that the past months have been very trying for the young man." 

"They have been trying for all of us, Father," Christine responded, leaning against Erik's side. She tilted her head to look up at him, and Erik felt himself becoming lost in her eyes. "Might we impose upon you once more this night to marry us?"

The priest smiled at them. "Yes, of course, my child. Come with me."

* * *

Erik stared at his reflection in the mirror of small washroom the priest has shown himself and Christine as a place to freshen up before the ceremony. The flickering gaslight did nothing to flatter the face of the man staring back at him. His stomach churned. _If you can't even bear to look at yourself, how can she possibly manage it for the rest of her life?_

He leaned heavily on the cabinet holding the washbasin, a low groan escaping his lips. So engrossed was he in his own doubts, he didn't hear Christine enter the room until she said his name. "Erik? Are you all right?"

Glancing over his shoulder at her, he shook his head. "Why are you doing this, Christine? Why did you choose me, when you could have had the world?" 

She didn't answer him right away, picking up a washcloth and dipping it into the water in the basin. Cupping his chin with one hand, she began to scrub gently at his face, washing away days of filth and neglect, the water cool against his flushed skin. The tenderness with which she touched him brought tears to Erik's eyes. "Christine..." he breathed. 

Setting the now dirty cloth down, she cradled his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her calm gaze. "Why would I want anyone else, when you are my world? I love you, Erik, always and only you." 

He hugged her to him fiercely, blinking away the tears that still threatened to fall. "What have I ever done to deserve you?" 

She nuzzled his throat. "You love me, and that is more than enough." Christine lifted her head, her fingers slipping inside the open neck of his shirt. "What's this?" she asked, tugging a sweat-stained ribbon out of his shirt. Her eyes widened as the item threaded on the ribbon sparkled in the lamplight. "You kept it...."

"Of course I kept it. It was my last remembrance of you." He lifted the ribbon over his head and untied the knot, letting the ring, the damnable yet glorious ring, settle in her palm. 

Her gaze moved from the diamond ring to his face. He could see the start of tears in her eyes as she began to speak. "I--"

His lips on hers cut off her apology, and in that moment, he decided that he was through with punishing himself for their past. It ended here and now, for both of them

A knock on the washroom door startled them both, Christine stepping back with a small gasp. 

"Monsieur, mademoiselle, I am awaiting your presence in the chapel," came the muffled voice of the priest. 

"Uh, yes, yes, we'll be right there," Erik replied. Christine glanced in the mirror, quickly wiping her face and plucking any remaining cobwebs from the ossuary from her hair. 

Together they entered the chapel and took their place in front of the priest. When he asked for the rings, Erik handed him the ring he had offered Christine once before, and she had returned. The priest looked at Christine. "Do you have a ring to give your husband?"

Nodding, Christine pulled a chain from around her neck. Undoing the clasp, she slid a man's wedding ring free and gave it to the priest. At Erik's questioning gaze, she said, "It was my father's, given to him by the woman he loved. I now give it to the man I love." 

The priest blessed the rings, and Erik slipped his ring onto Christine's finger. "With this ring I thee wed; this gold and silver I thee give; with my body I thee worship; and with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

Christine's eyes sparkled as she gazed up at Erik. Taking his hand in hers, she slid her father's ring onto his finger. “With this ring I thee wed; this gold and silver I thee give; with my body I thee worship; and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” 

The priest lay his hands over Christine and Erik's. “Heavenly Father, bless these children in holy matrimony, guide them and keep them safe and whole for the rest of their lives.” He drew the sign of the cross in the air. “Go in peace and may God's blessing be upon you.”

Erik drew Christine close, tilting his head so that his lips met hers in a tender kiss. When they finally drew apart, the priest had quietly disappeared. 

“Where to now, my love?” Christine asked, entwining her arm through Erik's. With the other hand she felt in her pocket and produced her purse of coins. “I have perhaps enough for a few nights stay at an inn.”

Shaking his head, Erik took the purse from her and dropped it back into her pocket. “Just because in my misery I chose to reside for the last few weeks in the catacombs, doesn't mean I don't have the resources to give you the world. I was a well paid Opera Ghost, if you recall.” 

“Then we are off on an adventure,” Christine replied. 

Erik smiled at her. “One to last the rest of our lives.”

With that, they strode up the aisle arm and arm through the chapel doors into the velvet night.


End file.
